Bring It Close (26 page)

When he looked back, Hampton Roads lay well aft, Virginia itself a blur of land, its intricate features indistinguishable.

“Let her run freely, Isiah. We may need to reef down if this wind gets stronger, but I want to make as fast a passage as possible. Old Edward Teach is going to be so surprised to see us.” He paused, peered over the taffrail, added, “And get someone to put my ship’s name right. We’ve no more need for a false identity.” He crossed the deck, put his hand on the backstay, whispered, “Have we sweetheart?”

Four

Wednesday 30th October

Now they had left the shelter of the Chesapeake and were out in the Atlantic, the wind was blowing up, spray pluming over the fore rail each time the bow dipped into the next trough, the stern tossing skyward. It caused an odd sensation in the stomach, but Jesamiah was used to it, paid no heed. The weather was nothing Rue could not handle. For Jesamiah, the wildness was oddly comforting; he knew his ship and crew could cope with this. After the long days of sedentary confinement it all felt and sounded so alive; the shout of the wind buffeting at him, the lift and dip of the deck and the boom and clamour of canvas overhead. There was nothing like the possibility of death by hanging to ensure the appreciation of living. But he was very tired. He left the quarterdeck to Rue and sought the solitude of the great cabin. Finch, grumbling at leaving the house and its comforts, had prepared a meal, but Jesamiah was not all that hungry. The accumulated deprivations of the past days were taking their toll. He had slept in gaol but it had been an uneasy, half alert sleep; he longed to curl up in his own bed for what was left of the night and shut out thought and worry, even if for only a few hours.

He finished the pork and with a hunk of bread mopped up the gravy that had not slopped over the edge of the dished plate, not really tasting any of it. He declined coffee but thanked Finch for his diligence and got the usual curmudgeonly answer. Finch would not be Finch if ever he was to discover that the muscles around his mouth could turn upward now and then.

Jesamiah dragged himself into his quarter cabin – his body ached, he was almost asleep already. He sat on the bed – a wooden, double-sized cot suspended from the overhead beams by ropes – and raised his leg for Finch to pull off the first boot. “I promise you, my friend, that once I have sorted all this and wed my Tiola we will find ourselves a nice house on solid land with as many rooms in it as you can imagine.”

Finch grunted, removed the other boot. “I can imagine a fair few. Grand ‘ouses don’t come cheap. La Sorenta be a perfickly good ‘ouse.”

“So it may, but I have no intention of living there. The place harbours too many bad memories. Asides,” Jesamiah broke off as he removed his shirt and breeches, “it is haunted.”

Finch, his hand outstretched to take the discarded clothes, froze, horrified. “Haunted?”

Sliding into the bed, Jesamiah noticed it had been made up with fresh, clean sheets. He felt a twinge of remorse at bursting Finch’s pleasure, but the old scoundrel did go on and on so.

“Aye. Haunted.”

“Haunted? As in ghost haunted?”

“Mm hmm.”

“You certain?”

“As certain as I’m here waiting for you to stop gabbin’ so’s I can get t’sleep.”

“Ghost, you say?”

“Mm. Up by the cemetery plot. Seen ‘im with m’own eyes.”

“A ghost? As in dead ghost?”

Jesamiah wriggled beneath the sheets, pulled the blanket under his chin. “Don’t know as there be such a thing as a live ghost. Blow the lamp out and bugger off. There’s a good fellow.”

Finch extinguished the lantern swinging from the central beam, shut the door behind him. “Don’t be wantin’ no ghosts. Ain’t good, ghosts. Dead ought’ stay dead says I. Ain’t got no business comin’ t’life again ‘ave ghosts.”

Jesamiah, hearing him muttering as he crossed the outer cabin, smiled. The outer door to the great cabin clicked shut and he lay in the dark listening to the familiar, comfortable sounds of his ship. Her creaking and groaning; the sea chuntering past her keel; the grumbling of the rudder. The thud of feet as hands ran to haul the yards to turn her. Rue would be taking in a reef if this wind got any livelier. He felt the motion as she settled to a different tack, pulled one of the pillows into his arms. The bed was so empty without Tiola.

He heard Finch up on the quarterdeck talking to Rue, his voice floating down through the slightly open skylight.

“You ‘eard anything about a ghost?”

“A ghost?
Oui
, I saw it. A fearful boogieman with two ‘eads.”

Jesamiah chuckled. He could always rely on Rue to back up a good yarn.

Half an hour later, deeply asleep, Jesamiah was dreaming of sun-kissed beaches and making love to Tiola, but the noise woke him instantly. He knew every whisper, every mumble, every creak and sound that
Sea Witch
made. Even in his sleep he listened to her murmuring and knew exactly what she was saying to him. That the wind had risen and she did not like running in a gale…but this sound – a screech, a howl of discomfort – was different. Trouble! Something was wrong!

He was out of the bed, grabbed his shirt and pulled it over his head. Barefoot, not needing light, he ran from his cabin to the open deck outside, hardly noticing the toss and pitch of the wild, wind-tormented sea. Other men were there standing, looking confused, some running towards the long boats, hauling at the tackles to launch them.

“Belay that!” Jesamiah roared, his shirt flapping against his naked buttocks and legs as he bounded through an open scuttle and slid down the ladder. Rue followed close behind, a lantern in his hand.
Sea Witch
rolled, gunwale under. Jesamiah grabbed at the ladder rail, steadied himself as she came up. There! That sound again in the after-hold, the sound of a rush of water.

Men were at the bottom of the ladder, pushing to climb upward, their faces chalk-pale, fear in their eyes. Jesamiah went down, shoving them aside.

“We’ve sprung, Sir! As sure as hens lay eggs, a butt’s started. We’re goin’ down, Cap’n! We’re goin’ down!”

“Belay that talk, Crawford! We’re doing no such thing!” Jesamiah pushed him out of the way, struck the face of another. “You! Unship that grating there, let me into the hold!”

Chippy, the carpenter, was there suddenly, with Nat Crocker and Isiah Roberts. Jesamiah laid his hands on the grating to help move it aside, was the first down into the darkness, his hand reaching up to take a lantern.

“We’re all a’drownin’!” Crawford shouted, undecided whether to wait to see what the Captain found, or get to where he would have a chance to reach the boats before
Sea Witch
foundered.

Chippy followed Jesamiah down and the spot of light disappeared from view.
Sea Witch
rolled, and again that dreadful sound as if the entire ocean was flooding across her hold. Then laughter. Jesamiah’s and the carpenter’s deep guffaw.

The light bobbed back towards the open scuttle and Jesamiah’s face appeared. “The head’s been knocked out of a fokken barrel. A load of dried peas are rolling about down here!”

Again
Sea Witch
dipped to larboard. The sound of peas rolling with the movement was exactly like the gush of incoming water. Everyone stood for a moment staring at each other. Then Rue laughed and slapped Nat on the shoulder.

“
Dieu nous bénisse
!” he cried, “God bless us!”

“I’ll second that,” Chippy echoed.

Sheepish laughter erupted, spreading from man to man. Jests rippled with the hilarity, many of the men falsely claiming they’d known it was nothing serious all along.

After hearing from Rue that the gale, though strong, was nothing the night watch could not handle, Jesamiah returned to his cabin. He found Finch bundling up the silver into a tablecloth.

“Put it all back, it was nothing serious,” he explained as he headed for his bed. “Shut the door when you’re done, Finch,” he called over his shoulder. “Wake me at dawn.”

He lay for a while, his face buried in the blue shawl Tiola had left behind. It smelt of her; summer hay-meadows and sweet-scented flowers. The space beside him too empty without her. A shawl was a poor substitute. Gods, but he did so miss her.

Rain beat down, rattling on the stern windows and the skylight. He heard Rue shout orders, felt
Sea Witch
’s movements, guessed they had reefed. She was sailing well enough, aye they were pitching and tossing, but they had experienced worse. The lantern hanging from the beam was swinging wildly, the shadows rising and falling up and down the walls. He ought to get up, extinguish it, but was too tired to bother. Tired, but he could not sleep.

He had not read his father’s letter. Did he want to read it? After all that had happened, did he care any more? Father was dead. Phillipe was dead. What was it Tiola had said once?
The past is done and cannot be undone.
The future is yet to be done, so do it
.

He yawned, climbed out of bed and padded, naked, into the great cabin. There was just enough light from the lamp swinging behind him to see by. The letter was in the top drawer of the desk. He lifted it out, looked at it again. Whatever his father had to say to him now, it did not matter. If this was an apology, then it was too late for ‘sorry’. If it was an explanation, then that, too, was of no use. How would knowing the whys heal the hurts and mend the wounds? They were already scabbed over, he did not want to pick at them and make them bleed again.

Suddenly, he did not want to know. He would rather shut the door on it and walk away. That was what Tiola had told him to do, and she was right. He had the future, why dwell on the past.

He went to the stern windows, stood looking out into the black night, the faint reflection of salt griming the glass panes, the foaming wake churning behind his ship, white against the darkness. He opened one window, was blasted by a shriek of the wind that howled into the cabin like a banshee.

He leaned out, held the letter up. And the raging wind grabbed it and took it away.

Five

North Carolina

It had rained hard during the night, with a wind that had driven it into crevices and through cracks in window frames and beneath doors. The servants had been kept busy at Archbell Point mopping the flood from the basement; as if they had not enough to do. When the dawn rushed in, it came with ragged clouds and a leaden sky that reflected in a scatter of sullen puddles. After checking Elizabeth-Anne and reassuring her, yet again, that the babe was doing well and would be born when he was ready to be born, Tiola pulled on her old boots and took her usual morning walk into Bath Town. As expected, the artist was there on the jetty, as he always was.

“Do you not grow tired of painting this view?” she asked him after admiring a few deft brush strokes.

“Folks seem eager to buy what I paint. For some reason this view be popular.”

“Plum Point. Captain Teach’s property?”

He nodded. “I find that when I add a man – just here,” he indicated a significant space on the canvas, “and if I give him a cocked hat and a black bushy beard, then I can ask twice the price.”

She watched him finish the colouring of some trees. “Is Captain Acorne aware you are an artist of talent?”

This had been the first chance to speak to him in private. Usually she was accompanied into town by someone from the house – most often, Perdita, but today the girl had an assignation with Jonathan Gabriel. Tiola was not supposed to know, but she had seen Perdita slipping from the house a while ago, her hood up, running for the shelter of the bushes on the far side of the gardens. To Tiola’s knowledge, nothing had yet been said of the proposed marriage of Governor Eden’s stepdaughter to Tobias Knight. The poor girl would probably be told when arrangements were made and a dowry agreed. Until then, no one in this predominantly selfish household would think it necessary to inform the bride.

Joseph Meadows continued his painting. “The Captain does not. But then he has not had cause to know.”

“You do not deny that he sent you here to keep watch on me, then?”

Meadows sat back, eyed his work critically. It would do. It was not as good as one of the Grand Masters, but it would do. “Be there much point in me denying it?”

Tiola laid a hand on his shoulder. It was good of Jesamiah to think of sending him. Good of Skylark to be here.

“I paint this view,” Meadows explained, “because I can observe the comings and goings from Teach’s place. I first tried to watch Archbell Point, but I was moved on. I then noticed this artist’s equipment for sale in Mr Quigley’s store along Main Street, and thought it a good disguise. No one, so far,” he touched the wood of his easel, “has challenged me sitting here hour after hour. No one queries if I change position to paint another view – of, say, the tavern.”

“Where Teach is drinking.”

Meadows grinned. “Coincidence of course, Ma’am; only coincidence that I always choose where that bugger – begging your pardon – happens to be.”

“I thank you for your diligence, Mr Meadows, and appreciate it.” Tiola did not add he had failed to protect her the other night, but that was not the poor man’s fault, he would not have expected her to be attacked in the supposed safety of Archbell Point.

She began to walk away for she had some items to collect from the apothecary, but Meadows grasped her arm.

“I warn you though, Ma’am. I can see most of Plum Point from here, so I know when Teach comes across the creek, but there is a tunnel about half a mile downstream on this side. It runs direct into Eden’s cellars. I understand it was built as a bolthole in case the Indians attacked, but it must also serve a good purpose for smuggling. If Teach were to use that route, I would have no knowledge of his whereabouts. Do you understand my meaning?”

Tiola nodded. She understood. Teach could attack her without warning. She again cursed her inability to use her Craft, for then he would not be able to get within a quarter of a mile of her without her being aware of his presence. But if she used it for even a moment, the evil that possessed the man would sense her.

Once that baby was born, once Elizabeth-Anne and her child were safe it would be a different matter. But there were at least two weeks to wait yet, unless he decided to birth early, but in her experience, babes, especially boys, usually lazed abed.

The apothecary, a widower and a lonely man outside of running his business, had become a friend during these long, idle days. A man who had knowledge of medicines and potions, he welcomed her wisdom in return. As always they sat together in the small living area behind the shop discussing the benefits of various herbs. It was therefore close on noon before Tiola retraced her steps homeward to the Governor’s house. She would be expected to take luncheon at twelve-thirty with Elizabeth-Anne and pass the early afternoon with her. It was not a task Tiola objected to, for unlike several in this house, her charge was a pleasant woman and they enjoyed each other’s company.

Undecided, Tiola hesitated at the end of Main Street. Would she continue on and take the shorter route, or turn aside and follow the river? She chose the river path.

The wind was still stirring the trees and rippling the water into ruffles and flurries. Cloud was building again, great banks of cumulus that heralded more rain. She hoped it would be fine tomorrow for Mary Ormond’s sake. No young lady wanted a downpour on her wedding day. Her father had ordered the gardens to be decorated with bunting and garlands of flowers – had commandeered nigh on every servant in town, or so she heard tell. Everyone was a-chatter with the promised excitement; it was not often that such an entertaining celebration took place in Bath Town. Tiola had no intention of attending. She had been invited, but Elizabeth-Anne in her advanced condition was not to go and had begged her company, for the house would be lonely. It was an ideal excuse to stay away.

Governor Eden was to officiate, as Bath Town had no priest. The last one had over-indulged in a surfeit of seafood and had died of food poisoning a year previously. No other clergyman had considered the town worthy of Christian salvation.

Two ducks were paddling mid-stream, one dived, head under, tail up; Tiola wished him good fishing. There were a few birds still twittering in the trees, despite it being quite a way into the autumn now. All the trees were red, or gold or brown, although a lot of leaves were on the ground. Tiola kicked through a pile, delighting in the childish pleasure of the rustle they made beneath her boots. She thought Joe Meadows a gifted fellow for he managed to capture these hues exactly. Her own attempts always came out too vivid on the eye. She skirted a small patch of poison ivy, its group of three bright green leaves looking so deceptively pretty and innocent. The irritant would not usually bring her skin out in a rash, but she did not want to test whether her suppression of Craft would affect her immunity.

~
Witch Woman! You are needed
! ~

Like a startled doe Tiola’s head shot upwards; the man’s voice speaking clearly into her mind was not Jesamiah’s, although the deep, husky timbre was similar.

“Captain Mereno?”

~
The girl. Along the river – hurry! I can do nothing
. ~

Tiola set down her basket of packages, trusting to their safety, and ran. The path was slippery from the night’s rain and her boots splashed through puddles sending showers of spray and muddying her stockings and gown. She paid no heed, ran, for she could hear screaming now. Perdita!

Around the bend Tiola halted, uncertain what to do. Teach had Perdita on the ground, her skirt up around her waist, one hand and his knee pinning her down as he fumbled at his breeches. What could Tiola do? She could not use her Craft as much as it was bristling beneath the surface, as much as the urge to release the power tingling in her fingertips was building and building, she could not use it. But she could act as would any human; as any woman.

She bent, picked up a hefty branch that had fallen in last night’s storm and tapped it against her palm to gauge its weight. Taking firm hold with both hands she walked forward, making no noise, coming up behind Teach who was too busy attending his base need to notice or sense her presence. The branch broke; splinters of wood and bark flew outward at the thwack of its impact on his skull, sounding like a pistol shot echoing across the river. He grunted and fell unconscious to one side. Immediately, Tiola gathered Perdita into her arms and held her tight, rocking her backwards and forwards as the girl clung to her, sobbing, shaking, terrified.

“Did he penetrate you?” Tiola had to ask – had to repeat her question several times, but at last Perdita heard, understood. Shook her head.

“Are you certain?”

Through her weeping the girl nodded, her teeth chattering as she spoke. “He did not violate me.”

Tiola cradled her tighter, closer, shut her eyes and murmured her relief. “Thank the All Mighty Spirit of Light and Wisdom! Come, my dear let us leave here. Leave the rat to fend for himself.” She ushered Perdita to her feet, saw at a glance the girl was otherwise unharmed, save for a muddied gown and a trembling that would not abate. Tiola began steering her away, but Perdita halted and stared with contempt at the prone body of Edward Teach. The anger was rising now she was safe: anger, hurt, indignation, fuelled by the shudder of fear coursing through her.

“Is he dead?”

Tiola bent close, rolled him onto his back and shook her head. Unhappily, no he was not. She was not permitted to kill. The laws of her Craft forbade it, yet in this instance she regretted the limitation, was tempted, so very tempted, to finish him here and now and save who knew how many souls from future suffering.

Perdita peered down at the unconscious face, the heavy jowls, the scabs and scars. He had a pistol tied by a ribbon to a crossbelt over his shoulder. She stretched her hand towards it…

Tiola stopped her “I know you have an urge to shoot him, but would that not make you as bad as he? A murderer?”

Ignoring her, Perdita had a compulsion to do something; to take some form of revenge. She detached the pistol and aimed it at his groin. Her hand was shaking. She brought the other up, tried to cock the heavy hammer, could not move it. She had never fired a pistol in her life.

“My dear, put it down. Please.”

In disgust at herself and him, Perdita hurled the weapon into the river. She met Tiola’s calm, unwavering gaze then walked away. “I trust you never regret making me do that, Mistress Oldstagh. I would rather be condemned to Hell for murdering that bastard than live knowing that, had I shot him, someone else would remain inviolate. Alive.”

From where he watched, on his side of Eternity, Charles Mereno saw Teach’s senses return, saw him crawl to his knees, his head thundering, a trickle of blood matting his hair. Saw his anger as he searched for his pistol and found its ribbon caught on a bush beside the water.

Heard his bellow of rage and shouted curse: “Thee shall regret displeasing me, girl! Thee shall regret it!”

Grief stirred in Charles’ heart and mind. Monsters like Edward Teach should never have been born.